


Hell To Pay

by Finalgirl



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finalgirl/pseuds/Finalgirl
Summary: It's 2011, ten years after Armageddon was averted, and Crowley thinks that Hell has decided to leave him alone. But has it?I started this fic a long time ago, and am posting it as book fic rather than show fic for several reasons. It poses the above question, which the show answered. The timeline for all of my Good Omens fic is that the events of the book took place in 2001, while the show is obviously contemporary. And I wasn't thinking about the show's cast when I wrote it, although it works fine if you do ;-). (Callum Blue will always be my fancast Crowley, although I thought the entire cast of the show did wonderfully.)





	Hell To Pay

Anthony Crowley, demon, paused outside of his flat and fished his keys from the outside pocket of his laptop bag. He held his touch-screen cell phone against one shoulder and a sack full of groceries in one arm as he turned the key and opened the door.

“Yes, absolutely,” he said to the person on the other end. “Call me back when you get a chance.” He smiled. “Love you, too. Bye now.”

Once inside, he went straight to the kitchen. The laptop bag sank to the floor with a thunk after he set the groceries on the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. He rubbed his eyes as he set to putting the groceries away—fresh produce, exotic spices, and a bottle of red wine. It had been an exhausting day managing mostly-ill-gotten gains, and he was looking forward to just kicking back and watching one of the DVDs that he had rented through the post. Ironically, he didn't actually feel like cooking and would probably finish the leftover delivery pizza in the refrigerator.

Thinking of these plans, he pulled one of the postal envelopes from the laptop bag and began to open it—

—and screamed as three hands grabbed him from behind and another clapped over his mouth.

 

* * * * * * *

 

The angel Aziraphale was contented as he went about his work. It had been good to speak to his partner a moment ago. Right now, he was going through no less than five boxes that had come in the post that day, all containing books for his shop. He would occasionally special-order things for customers, but more often, would order books that he wanted to have in stock—which is to say, to read them himself. The book he had opened just now happened to have been ordered for Crowley: How To Win Friends Or, Failing That, Influence People.

Aziraphale frowned slightly. He couldn't say he _approved_ of Crowley's choice, but he secretly believed that the written word was never entirely wasted. Everything but a few holy texts had to be taken with a grain of salt, anyway...and even those had questionable bits.

He decided to call Crowley back to let him know his book had come in. They weren't slated to see each other until the weekend, but with any luck, Crowley could swing by on lunch or in the evening the next day to pick it up. He hit the redial button on the no-frills cell phone that Crowley had helped him pick out. Over his objections, Aziraphale had insisted that he had no need for tiny cameras or mobile web access.

A busy tone came over the line. _We're sorry,_ an overly serene female voice said. _The number you have dialed cannot be reached._

Aziraphale put down the phone slowly. Something was wrong. Maybe very, very wrong.

In the next instant, he was in Crowley's flat, in the lounge area. He didn't usually travel this way, but this time, he had a bad feeling.

“Crowley?” he called out, but there was no reply. He had to be there, though—his laptop bag was right there by the kitchen. The only thing that seemed out of order was an empty grocery bag on the floor.

Then something off to his left caught Aziraphale's eye. Sure enough, it was Crowley's touchscreen phone, smashed to bits. And next to it, just a few drops—could it be?

“Oh, no.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Crowley had begun to believe that the matter had been forgotten.

Not that it had changed anything. He had every reason, after all, to maintain his status as a free agent, and not try to get back into Hell's employ. He also knew better than to throw himself into the path of certain demons—namely the one conducting (driving was the wrong word) the car that he was trapped in.

It had been almost ten years since the world almost ended, after the Antichrist had essentially chosen to be human. Things had been so quiet that he had wondered if _someone_ Down There with sufficient authority hadn't just decided that it had _not_ been his fault that Adam Young had grown up without a Satanic upbringing. As for the assassination of the demon Ligur—well, that was just par for the course among demons. That was the kind of thing that made them respect you _more._

As it turned out, none of it had been forgotten, or forgiven. The demon Hastur had kept it all alive, due as much to his personal dislike of Crowley as to his belief in Crowley's culpability. Now, he intended to take Crowley back to Hell for an eternity of punishment.

Well, it wouldn't quite be eternity. It would just seem like it. At any rate, it could be considerably longer than he had spent on earth. If he was lucky, they might get bored with him, and let him slink around the periphery as a dire warning. At some point, though, he was likely to be annihilated. Obliterated. Simply snuffed out of existence. This was essentially what he had done to Ligur. The immortal didn't come equipped for an afterlife, after all.

At the moment, Crowley was struggling not to cry. Eventually, he knew, he would cry and cry and cry and cry; but he wanted to deny Hastur that satisfaction for as long as he could. His fear, though, was evident in the way that he put his feet up in the backseat of the car and tried to scrunch himself into the smallest space possible.

The car, such as it was, wound its way through conveniently empty streets which shone with a faint drizzle. In the passenger seat next to Hastur sat a demon who he'd referred to as Barligora, and who currently occupied a female human form. Both of Crowley's assailants were broad-shouldered, sullen and beetle-browed, and the principal difference with Barligora was that she had long dark hair that fell past her shoulders. Crowley had never met her before. Despite the fact that she had been considerably less violent than Hastur, she clearly worked in Procurement.

Hastur had been talking more or less constantly, and he was still talking now. “You're really gonna get it, Crowley. None of your shiny, expensive toys can save you now.”

This was enough to draw Crowley out of his miserable musings for a moment. That bit of patter was straight out of the infernal Handbook...the _1985_ edition, if it wasn't obvious. Hastur hadn't even bothered to paraphrase. Really, some people took no pride in their work.

“Don't forget to turn here, Luv,” Barligora said. This distracted Crowley as well, even if Hastur took no notice. Luv? Something was definitely odd there.

The car turned onto a row of stone townhouses that looked like they'd been built at the turn of the previous century. One house several doors down had a historical plaque on the front staircase.

Hastur pointed to it. “That one there used to be occupied by the Great Beast himself, Aleister Crowley. We thought it would be an appropriate location to start our journey.”

With that, a two-meter swath of ground right next to the townhouse sort of...pushed down, in the shape of a ramp. It would be easy enough to access it by driving up onto the grass, especially if your wheels weren't touching the street anyway. A malignant red glow emanated from the resulting maw. Crowley couldn't help but groan aloud in dread, and Hastur cackled.

Crowley didn't know if it would be a long trip. He hadn't had transportation on the way up. In fact, he hadn't even had legs.

He began to reconsider his position on weeping. Perhaps, he reasoned, if he started now, he could be all cried out by the time he arrived. But no, that was no good: there was always time for more tears in Hell. The pauses in the action, it was said, were the worst part.

Crowley couldn't help but think of all the things he would miss: sunny days and rainy days, other people's pets, good wine and bad fish-and-chips, dividend checks, string quartets, rock concerts, books—

Books...

This thought felt like someone had stabbed him and twisted the knife, for it reminded him of what he would miss the most. He held on to his victory over tears only by his desire not to lose to them in spectacular fashion. He admitted that he might be overly fond of his “shiny, expensive toys”, but he had never mistaken them for his real treasure.

At that moment, he made a decision. It was true that eventually, Hell would break him down completely, leaving him without any dignity and only a sliver of his personality. However, he was going to deny everyone involved as much of their fun as he could, for as long as he could and at every turn possible. Hastur had once told him that his fate would be legendary. So too, Crowley resolved, would his stoicism.

The car had stopped a moment for Hastur's gloating, but now moved forward. Hastur cackled again. Crowley could read the infamous inscription on the archway. He covered his face with his hands as much as he could without straining his bonds—he didn't want to make that mistake again.

All of the sudden, the whole block shook with a loud crash, and the car hit the hit the ground on all four of its already-flat tires. Crowley spilled into the floorboard but wasn't hurt.

The car hadn't been going fast, but Hastur and Barligora, way too overconfident to wear seat belts, had gotten the wind knocked out of them. They sat for a moment regaining their breath and puzzling over what had happened. Then, a golden-white light suffused the block, reaching even into the back floorboard where Crowley could see it.

“Blimey,” Barligora whispered fearfully. “Is that what I think it is?”

Hastur nodded slowly. “Cherub.”

Vengefulness broke over Crowley's face like an egg in a skillet. “Guardian of the Eastern Gate, you bastards,” he muttered.

Still careful not to use his hands, Crowley pushed himself back into the seat. In front of the car, in the middle of the street, was a ten-meter tall column of bright light. It had facial features, although not the ones it usually wore, and appeared at times to have two arms, at other times to have many. Its wings were not always visible, but always seemed to be there, and didn't so much flap as roll past the field of normal perception. (There were likely more than two wings as well.)

At the end of one arm it held a flaming sword that was at least five meters long.

There was, of course, no doubt in Crowley's mind as to who this was, although Hastur and Barligora would only have known if they'd been listening to him. Angels and demons could take physical form, and even those could have a few small differences, such as the wings, which were normally kept hidden. This however, was what was called the manifest form—and even it wasn't the whole picture. Demons could take manifest form, too, and Crowley tried not to wonder why angels were always so much more impressive.

In a voice like flame and wind, the angel ordered Crowley's attackers to release their prisoner.

This seemed to shake Hastur out of his shock. “NO!” The car lifted up about a little further, enough to jump the curb, and made for the gate.

It didn't get far. The flaming sword came down on the sidewalk, causing a crack that spider webbed into the street.

Hastur put on the brakes (or stopped the car, at any rate) abruptly. The angel shifted the sword to point straight at him. Crowley could hear the air around the sword thrumming, thought he could even smell the metal of the car's bonnet heating up. From the angel came an incensed scream.

“Abort,” Hastur whispered to Barligora, barely audibly.

“What?”

“We're aborting this collection.” He turned to look back at Crowley. “For _now.”_ He held up his hands in surrender. “I'll let him out.” (Crowley had already determined that the car's child locks were engaged.)

“No!” Barligora said. “I mean...I'll do it.”

She scrambled out as quickly as she could, holding her hands up, and made for the back door. All at once, the flaming sword was simultaneously pointed at Hastur _and_ at her. It wasn't that there were two swords, it was just a simultaneous _fact,_ a trick with space and time. Crowley thought that this was a very good idea: Neither he nor Aziraphale knew what she was capable of, and Hastur was perfectly capable of abandoning her and speeding off with his quarry.

Barligora opened the back door and practically dove in the back seat as Crowley got out.

In that same unearthly voice, the angel gave the two in the car a rather familiar instruction, although in the case of demons it was, perhaps, less insulting than usual.

The car puttered right up to the still-open gate as if it were about to comply. Then, at the last moment, Hastur made a hairpin turn and sped off down the street, laughing madly as he went. As the glowing gate growled shut, Crowley got his first view of the car's license plate. It read: HANDBASKET.

Standing on the sidewalk, Crowley suddenly found himself alone. The enormous presence which had illuminated the street a moment ago was gone. He looked around until he saw a certain familiar bookseller emerge from between two buildings across the street, rearranging his cardigan sweater.

They saw each other, and raced to meet each other in the middle of the street. Crowley felt an amazing sense of relief. The danger had passed, he was safe.

“Thank you,” he said breathlessly. Their eyes met...

…and Aziraphale burst out crying.

Crowley's hands were bound with rusty barbed wire, wrapped tightly twice around. Aziraphale's expression as he saw this was a mix of fear, horror and nausea.

However he might come across, though, Aziraphale wasn't one to be derailed by his emotions for long. He took a deep breath and drew a pair of wire-cutters out of his cardigan's pocket—wire-cutters that probably hadn't been there a moment ago. He found a safe place to snip the barbed wire, and Crowley winced slightly as he carefully peeled it away.

“Can you heal this?” Aziraphale asked, dabbing his eyes with his cardigan sleeve after pocketing the wire-cutters again. The barbed wire on the ground flamed and turned to dust.

Crowley shook his head. “I think it was cursed...or, blessed or something.” Sure enough, there were welts raising in between the vicious-looking scratches and punctures. “It'll heal, but at a human rate. How did you know I was in trouble, anyway?”

“I tried to call you back.” What could have looked like fate felt like cold, terrifyingly simple coincidence to both of them.

Aziraphale had known very well that as long as Crowley was _with_ his phone, no actual malfunction in the device itself would keep him from talking over it. As for how he'd known where to go, Crowley didn't have to ask that. There were only three permanent gates to Hell in London, and the other two were at Whitechapel and Fleet Street. Once here, it was just a matter of watching for the car that shouldn't have been able to move.

It was easy to forget, but as the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale had originally been trained in security. Millennia after the Garden of Eden had been stashed in a gap in human perception, that training returned to him now.

“We have to get out of here,” he said, “but we shouldn't go back to the bookstore.”

“I agree.” If they'd been following him for a while, they might be there waiting; if they hadn't, Crowley didn't want them to track him now, and learn where Aziraphale lived. “Where to, though?”

Aziraphale thought for a second. “Cora. My student. She'll take us in, at least for a night or two, and we can walk there from here.”

Crowley recalled Aziraphale saying something about taking on a student, a young American expatriate who called herself a Judeo-Christian mystic. He saw only one problem with the plan.

“My sunglasses,” he said. “They're all back at my flat.”

Aziraphale looked sheepish. “Um...I wouldn't worry about that. She knows about you.” The way he said it made it clear that the last statement encompassed more than just Crowley's demonic nature.

Crowley raised one eyebrow. “Right,” he said, feeling proud when he could have felt affronted.

Only then did he notice what Aziraphale carried in his left hand. “Um...Aziraphale...did you...crack the street open with a _plastic_ sword?”

Aziraphale held up the toy sword. The blade was blackened but not warped, and the gold-colored hilt still glittered. It had been all he could find in a pinch, at a toy store on the corner of Crowley's block.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he said, with confident smirk. “It wasn't plastic at the time.”

 _And the demon,_ Crowley thought, _did not ask again._

 

_* * * * * * *_

 

“I know it looks bad,” Crowley said, “but you should see the other guys.”

Cora Jones smiled indulgently as she finished wrapping Crowley's wrist in bandages. She had cleaned and disinfected the wounds, then put cortisone on the welts. They were in the small bathroom of Cora's flat, which linked her bedroom to her guest bedroom. They could hear moving around and the clinking of ice from the kitchen, where Aziraphale was getting glasses of ice water for all three of them.

“No, Really. You should.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” Cora replied.

“So,” Crowley said conversationally, sitting down on the edge of the tub. “How did you and Aziraphale meet, anyway?”

“Well,” Cora said, “I...um, I invoked him.”

“Oh!” Crowley's eyes widened. As one of the angels mentioned specifically, if not by name, in the Bible, Aziraphale did get invoked from time to time. He was under no obligation to respond unless he saw fit, so Crowley knew that his friend must have seen something in this girl. Crowley himself had been invoked once, and had found it _terribly_ flattering.

“I did my homework first,” Cora assured him. “I figured that the archangels would be too much to handle or else they might not respond.”

“Yeah, Gabriel can be an arse,” Crowley said.

Cora cleared her throat. “I might have heard something about that. Anyway, I also made sure to pick—no offense—someone who wasn't supposed to have Fallen. The record gets kind of dodgy on Sariel, for instance.”

Crowley shrugged. “He's actually back in the fold. But he's kind of like me—you were always a lot safer with him than with some angels. But I'm sorry, we were talking about Aziraphale.”

“Yes. I set the array, said the words. I intoned his name and everything--'A-zir-a-phaaaale'. When nothing happened, when he didn't appear with a 'poof!', I thought it hadn't worked.” She paused. “I didn't expect him to show up in a cab.”

“Well, in fairness, it isn't far,” Crowley said. “And 'Poof!' takes more work than you might imagine.”

“I don't doubt that either.” She rinsed the small amount of blood that she had cleaned off of him down the drain, and it sizzled as it went. She raised one eyebrow. That hadn't happened when she'd cleaned the wounds, so she imagined, correctly, that Crowley was just doing that to show off.

“So,” she said. “The Serpent, huh? _The_ Serpent?”  
Crowley nodded. “That was also me in that painting of Lilith, but don't tell Aziraphale.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” she said with a wink.

A moment later, there was a knock at the door, and Aziraphale came in with a tray and three glasses of water.

“How are you?” he asked Crowley.

Crowley looked mournfully at the bandages on his arms. “Would you look at this? I mean, don't get me wrong, Cora, I'm grateful. But I'll have to go back to work eventually. How am I going to explain this? It looks like I tried to off myself.”

“Don't worry about that right now,” Aziraphale said. Then he addressed them both. “Look, I was thinking that I could discorporate temporarily tonight. That way, I could watch over the whole building. No one could get in from any direction without my knowing.”

The terrifying possibility was that Hastur and Barligora could transport themselves directly into the flat, although, as Crowley had indicated, it would cost a lot in terms of energy. The good news was that they would still have to return to Hell through a Gate if they wanted to bring anyone back with them.

“That sounds like a good plan,” Cora agreed.

Crowley finished shotgunning his water. “My plan is to get some sleep right away.”

Cora gestured with her head to the room on the other side of the bathroom. “I made up the guest bed,” she said.

“Good,” he said, putting his glass down on the sink a little too emphatically. Then he turned to walk away.

“Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale said. “I need to talk to you first.”

Crowley's eyes were weary as he looked over his shoulder. “Whatever it is, I'm sure it will keep till tomorrow. Thank you both again, and good night.” The sound echoed in the bathroom as he closed the door to the guest bedroom behind him.

Aziraphale sighed. “This isn't going to work.”

“What do you mean?” Cora asked.

“My plan. My dear, do you have any crayons? Or sidewalk chalk?”

 

* * * * * * *

 

A few minutes later, Cora stood in her living room and watched Aziraphale wipe Qabalistic designs in colorful wax off her kitchen's linoleum.

“My dear,” he said as he stood, “we've got company. Friendly company. Three of them.”

“I know,” she said, smiling. “I can feel them!” She felt as if bubbles of champagne were bursting in her bloodstream.

Cora had a unique sensitivity to the esoteric world, but she had never experienced this because Aziraphale had never been discorporate around her. The angels of which he spoke were hidden in the air outside, just like hundreds of thousands of them had been outside the Tadfield Airforce Base, one summer day years ago.

“But why?” she asked.

As if on cue, a chilling scream came from the other room. It quickly escalated into an unearthly register, a tinny, echoing sound straight out of horror movies.

Cora looked at Aziraphale, her eyes wide. If she hadn't been able to sense that they were thoroughly protected on all sides—including above and below—she would have been afraid that the flat was under attack. The expression on Aziraphale's face also told her that this wasn't the case. He looked unspeakably sad, but nothing else.

  
“I'm turning in for the night,” he said, giving her a quick hug. “Sleep well. Call out or knock on the bathroom door if you need anything.”

That's when everything made sense to Cora. “Thanks,” she said, “I'll probably be out here reading for a while. But let me know if you need anything. Good night.” With that, the angel picked up the toy sword and slipped through the door to the guest bedroom, closing it behind him.

 

* * * * * * *

 

In the guest room. Crowley sat up in bed, still fully dressed, panting with fear. His demonic vision quickly made out the form of his partner.

“Is...is this what's real?” he asked Aziraphale as the angel walked over to the bed.

“Yes.” Aziraphale reached out and put a hand over Crowley's hand as if to prove it.

Crowley breathed a relieved sigh. “Sorry if I frightened Cora.” He turned and put his feet on the floor. “It's just that...Hastur was...awfully specific about some of the things that were in store.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I'm so sorry.” He propped the sword against the nightstand, and didn't release Crowley's hand as he sat down beside him.

They both knew what had caused Crowley's nightmare. The demons in Procurement had a certain _something_ about them, a vibration they gave off or a subtle poison in their words, which tainted the minds of their prisoners and engendered hopelessness. Given just a day or two out from under their influence, it would dissipate on its own, like a bad dream forgotten. Until then, though, it _was_ the bad dream.

In this case, that was literally true. Even though the mind could usually be relied on to bail out of an excessively stressful dream, this one had lasted at least a little longer than it ordinarily would have.

“I've called in the reinforcements,” Aziraphale said. “We have three other angels guarding the building.”

“Yeah, I can feel them,” Crowley said. “But where did you find three who were willing to look out for the likes of me?”

“You misjudge us, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “It wasn't so hard to find angels willing to watch over someone who had turned their back on Hell. They can be here while the sun's down...for a few nights, at any rate.”

“That should do for that long.” As cliche as it was, demons like Hastur, who weren't field-rated, were more likely to avoid daytime on earth.

Growing calmer now, Crowley felt out the borders of their angelic protection. “Wow. You did the whole thing, didn't you? Inscribed the sphere.” Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley turned toward him and spoke hesitantly. “Does that mean that you'd be willing to stay in here tonight? With me?” He had no concern about privacy – the guardian angels would be looking outward, unless the sphere of protection alerted them to ethereal incursion from Crowley's pursuers.

Aziraphale nodded. “That's my intention.”

With that, everything that Crowley had been through that night caught up with him at once. Realizing that he could finally let it go, he broke down crying. Aziraphale slid closer to him and put his arms around him as he was wracked with sobs. The angel felt moisture on his neck as the demon buried his head against his shoulder.

“Oh, Aziraphale. It was so frightening.”

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his back. “But you're safe now.”

They sat like this for a while, and even once Crowley's gasping sobs had faded, he continued to shiver. Aziraphale just held him a little more tightly.

“You're safe now,” Aziraphale repeated once Crowley had been still for a while. “Just let me hold you tonight. I'll be your sword and shield. Just give all of those fears to me.”

At this Crowley melted into Aziraphale's arms. He was amazed by how safe he felt there. He slid his arms around the angel in turn, and they stayed like that for a while. Occasional tears continued to escape him.

Eventually, Aziraphale gently turned Crowley's face toward him and looked at him. “Let's get you cleaned up. I'm going to step away for just a second.”

Taking the sword in hand again, he released Crowley and walked over to the bathroom door. At first, Crowley was content to stay on the edge of the bed, as long as he could keep Aziraphale in view. Soon, though, he grew nervous and rose to join him.

There was no light from under the bathroom door, but Aziraphale knocked anyway. Getting no reply, he opened the door. He took a washcloth out from under the sink and ran warm water on one edge of it.

“There we go,” he said to Crowley, and wiped away the sticky trails that tears had left. The warm water was soothing, as were the angel's touch and voice.

As they crossed back over to the bed, Crowley stumbled slightly and clutched his side, gasping.

“What's wrong?”

Crowley's teeth were clenched. “I've been trying to heal it, but it's not working.”

“Lie down, let me see.”

The demon did as bidden, gingerly stretching out on the bed. The sword went against the nightstand again. Aziraphale carefully unbuttoned Crowley's shirt, and Crowley bit his lower lip as he watched him. The demon realized with some relief that he felt at least a flicker of the emotions that he would usually feel while Aziraphale was doing that—if only a flicker.

Pulling back the right panel of the shirt, though, on the side that Crowley had indicated, Aziraphale found a large, yellow-green nebula of a bruise.

“First, I'm going to see what's wrong,” Aziraphale said. He put his hands over the bruise without touching, and concentrated for a moment.

“I think I've got a cracked rib.”

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley sighed. “Stupid of me not to speak up sooner.”

“Not really,” Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. “I can tell you've been working on it, and it wasn't cracked all the way through, anyway. I think I can fix it. Hold still—this shouldn't hurt.”

This time, Aziraphale gently pressed his hands against the injured side. Crowley felt a pleasant, even warmth emanate from those hands. If temperature could be described with color, this was golden. There was just a second of pain as the rib knit itself back together again, but only faint tingling as the broken blood vessels rejoined.

By the time it was over, Crowley was trembling again—but not from pain or fear or desire, or from anything he could really pinpoint. _Power_ , he thought. His slight tremors subsided with the heat. Looking down at the area, he saw that the bruise was gone.

“Whew,” he said. “Thank you.”

“No trouble. There must not have been any blessing or curse involved in that one.”

“Well, no,” Crowley said. “Hastur can hardly wear blessed boots, now can he?”

Aziraphale’s face stayed impassive, but Crowley could see rage fill up his countenance, until it formed a whole new layer of emotion that appeared to be no emotion at all. It seemed like more anger than an actual human body—as opposed to one that merely looked human—could contain.

“I'd like to see him try,” Aziraphale said. “That would be amusing.”

“You could bless them for him, I'm sure,” Crowley said, wanting to lighten the mood again. “It would give a whole new meaning to 'bless my boots'.”

“Or I could just turn a garden hose on him with my thumb over it.”

At this, Crowley frankly cackled. This caused Aziraphale to laugh heartily as well. _Strange old life,_ Crowley thought, _crying and laughing in the same night._

Once their laughter had subsided, Aziraphale got into bed with Crowley. He turned on his side, face toward his partner and toward the wall, and propped himself up on one elbow. Crowley recognized the invitation and nestled in next to him, spooning.

“Would you like for me to stay awake?” the angel asked.

In light of what Aziraphale had already done for him, Crowley wanted to be able to say “no” right away. Instead, he found himself looking at the sword and making calculations. Either of them could grab it quickly enough. “Not necessarily. We're probably safe, and you need rest, too.”

It was true. Angels and demons didn't normally require sleep, but both Crowley and Aziraphale had gotten used to it.

“Okay, then.”

They stayed spooned like that for a time, enjoying their closeness and listening to the reassuringly normal sounds of the house. Something was worrying at Crowley's mind, though.

“Aziraphale, I'm a terrible person.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because,” he said, “a good snog sounds really, really nice right now; but I don't think I'd be up for a shag.”

“Hmm. Is that all?” Aziraphale asked. “Then I must be terrible, too; because I've had the same thoughts.”

Crowley turned over, looking at his partner incredulously.

“In fact,” the angel continued, “I believe that under the circumstances, that actually makes me worse.”

“Are you sure, though?” Crowley asked in a hushed tone.

Aziraphale nodded. “Anything you need.”

They drew closer and wrapped each other in an embrace. Crowley closed his eyes, and felt Aziraphale's lips brush against his for one exquisite second before the angel kissed him. The kisses they traded were soft and gentle, occasionally wandering slightly to one side or the other, sometimes capturing just the top or bottom lip.

Crowley felt himself truly relax for the first time since being rescued. _This is nice,_ he thought to himself, _really nice._ It was certainly a long way from where he had expected to be at this point, earlier in the night.

He opened his eyes partway, so that he could see Aziraphale's expression. He seemed to be enjoying the proceedings as well. That was good.

Then Crowley thought about how he would feel if Aziraphale almost met some bad end, how he would feel if he almost lost Aziraphale, how he would feel to see Aziraphale in distress; and he realized that this wasn't happening _just_ for his benefit at all. The thought caused his heart to clench.

As they'd paused, the angel suddenly seemed to be concerned about something. “Everything all right?” Crowley asked Aziraphale in a whisper, rubbing the top part of his partner's back.

“It's okay,” he replied, “I just...I want you to know that I'll still be keeping an eye on things.”

Crowley understood what he meant. Aziraphale would be remaining grounded, so to speak, continuing to observe the room, so that Crowley could get lost in the moment. There was only one way to respond to a sacrifice like that, and that was to accept it.

They resumed kissing, and Crowley let go as much as he could. Soon, the horrors of the earlier evening were almost forgotten. In spite of how cool his skin could sometimes be to the touch, Aziraphale could sometimes be very warm, especially when they'd been close together. He was very warm right now and, as Crowley stole glimpses of him in the moonlight, very, very beautiful. Crowley couldn't help but notice that if he reacted well to a particular type of kiss, by kissing back particularly strongly, for instance, Aziraphale would do whatever it was again. Crowley kept expecting him to have enough or grow tired, but he didn't.

All of this continued at a comfortable, low simmer, too, until finally, during a pause for breath, Crowley forgot himself. With a sensual sigh, he bared his throat to his partner, his body unconsciously inviting him to cross the line that they had drawn together.

Aziraphale gasped, and shut his eyes tightly as if pained. One hand gripped Crowley's arm, and the other gripped the edge of Crowley's still-unbuttoned shirt. For a moment, both terrifying and thrilling, Crowley thought the other man might peel the shirt off of him. Although that wasn't part of what they'd agreed to, Crowley expected that he'd consent if he did.

Next, however, the angel opened his eyes and released the breath he'd been holding. He let go of the shirt and moved that hand around to Crowley's back, over the fabric. They were both very conscious of having tamped down their own desire.

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said, with a dejected sigh.

He was right, Crowley realized. As tempting as it was, as easy as it would be to take things further, there were still security concerns. More importantly, Crowley didn't want to start writing checks that he ended up unable to cash, therefore disappointing them both.

“No, I'm sorry,” Crowley said. “Just forgot myself, I suppose.” He was angry, but not at Aziraphale; he was angry at Hastur, at the situation...and a little at himself. _Leave it to the angel to do the right thing,_ he thought.

Aziraphale hugged him again, as if to show that he wasn't mad at him.

“Just once more,” Crowley said, then planted a chaste but lingering kiss on the angel's lips. He didn't want to cause more trouble, but he also didn't want a rather nice interlude to end on a sour note.

Aziraphale turned on his back, and Crowley settled in next to him on his side, resting his head on his shoulder.

Frustrated tears threatened the demon again. It wasn't out of thwarted arousal, but out of another preoccupation. _Would life ever feel normal again?_ Crowley wondered.

“What are we gonna do, Aziraphale?” he asked, squinching his eyes shut. “They're still out there. They didn't go home, we both saw that.”

“Don't worry about any of that right now,” the angel said, rubbing his back. “Just sleep now. We'll probably be surprised by how clearly the answer comes to us tomorrow.”

“Mmm...yeah,” Crowley said. “Suddenly I'm very tired.”

Aziraphale chuckled knowingly. “Neither that, nor the inclination toward a 'good snog', are unusual responses to sudden healing.”

Soon after that, Crowley drifted off.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Some hours later, Crowley awoke again. His first thought was that he hadn't had any further nightmares. Then he noticed that he was turned on his side again. The angel must have rearranged them to spoon again as he slept. There was some kind of textured comforter over them both, all the way over Crowley's head and most of the way over Aziraphale's.

Crowley regarded his lover's face. He seemed to have shed a few tears of his own, and he looked very, very tired.

As Crowley shifted slightly, he realized that the comforter had a sort of rigidity to it, as if it had a frame. That's when he realized that it wasn't any kind of blanket at all.

It was a wing.

Aziraphale was turned in such a way that his wings were stretched out to either side, without his weight on them. Anyone standing somewhere else in the room would only have been able to see him.

Crowley was overwhelmed for a second with the beauty of the gesture. Again wishing to make the most of what his partner was doing for him, he sighed contentedly and dropped back into sleep.

 

* * * * * * *

 

When Crowley awoke again, he no longer had an angel wrapped about him. There was one, however, sitting up bed next to him, reading. The book was The Spiritual Memoirs of Albert Einstein, which Crowley had given him for Christmas.

“Thought you'd be through with that one by now,” Crowley murmured sleepily. It seemed like such an ordinary thing to say first thing in the morning after such a strange night.

Aziraphale blushed as he closed the book. “Twice through. Cora's borrowing it, so I figured I'd browse it again.”

Crowley was glad to see that Aziraphale seemed well rested. For that matter, Crowley himself felt restored.

He yawned and stretched. “I must have slept like a rock.”

“You did. Cora and I stood in that doorway and had an entire conversation and you didn't stir.”

Crowley got a mental image of Aziraphale standing in the door frame, carrying on a conversation, plastic sword in hand. He realized that that was probably exactly what had happened.

“Is Cora still here?”

“No, she's at work. She works as a research lab technician of some sort. She'll be back later tonight.”

Crowley sat up. “Say, what time anyway—” he looked at the clock on the nightstand. “ _Oh._ ”

“It was a long night," Aziraphale said. "Now, let's get some brunch!”

 

* * * * * * *

 

A short while later, in Cora's kitchen, they sat together over scrambled eggs, orange slices, coffee and toast. Again, the moment seemed insanely normal when juxtaposed against the previous night's horrors; but the absence of their angelic sentries was obvious enough.

“So,” Crowley said, sipping his coffee, “Cora seems like a nice young woman.”

Aziraphale nodded. “She reminds me of Anathema in a lot of ways, although obviously her approach to things is different.”

“Yeah.” It had been a while since he thought of Anathema Device-Pulsifer, the young occultist whose ancestor's prophecies had played a pivotal role in the almost-end-of-the-world. “Did you say that Anathema was expecting?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Five months. I was actually going to take Cora out to Tadfield in a week or two to meet her. You're invited as well, I just hadn't had a chance to mention it.”

Crowley shook his head. “That's okay. I wouldn't want to bring the kind of trouble that's following me around Anathema and her family. Just being here is bad enough.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, falling back on an earlier nickname, “my hope is that by that time the issue will be resolved.”

Crowley slammed his coffee cup down on the table. “I'm sorry, but...you know what really frosts me, Aziraphale? What gets me worst of all? I was _The Serpent_ , as in, the one in the Bible. I'm the one who got humans to give this whole world over to sin in the first place.”

“Now, we've both always questioned whether that was really bad for them, on the whole,” Aziraphale said. “The Fortunate Fall, the Ineffable Plan and all of that.”

“That's how we see it,” Crowley said, “but all the same, that's not how it's on record. You'd think it would have earned me some bloody _gratitude._ Or if not that—you would think that Manchester would count for something.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I would say 'I told you so', but...”

“But you didn't,” Crowley said softly. Aziraphale was not the “I-told-you-so” sort. They had said a lot of things to each other over the millennia, sometimes in the course of lofty theological debates conducted with perfect civility while actively attempting to thwart each other; but “I told you so” was not in either of their repertoires.

“Maybe you should have said it,” Crowley continued. “I mean, it's dog-eat-dog down there, and it's not like I didn't know that.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I actually understand the appeal, from your point of view, of being part of the loyal opposition. The most that I would say is that your options seemed limited. I don't believe that you're cut out for Procurement. Or for...Processing.”

Crowley gagged at the thought. “Definitely not. I'm a field agent at heart. Provocation. Temptation is my specialty.”

“You know,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, “for the longest time, I thought that was...what do the young people call it? A 'line'.”

Crowley couldn't help but grin. “Angel, I think that says more about your state of mind than mine.”

Aziraphale blushed, and attempted to hide it with a sip from his coffee. “That could be.”

“You're right, though—about being on the opposing team, I mean,” Crowley continued. “For me, it was never about getting people damned to Hell; or even about getting them to hurt each other. Although, I suppose that if you tie up the cell towers in metro London for forty-five minutes at lunchtime, people hurting people is inevitable.” His voice had a tone of regret that Aziraphale had never, ever heard before.

“I understand. For you, it was about helping maintain _balance_ in the world.”

Crowley's expression was one of surprise. “Balance? I suppose so. More like making sure that humans actually had a little fun for a change. Or at least that things stayed interesting. They can't rely on your lot for any of that.”

“That's a matter of opinion,” Aziraphale said uncomfortably.

It was Crowley's turned to shrug. “Either way, I just wish I could prove that the whole mess with Adam Young was not my fault. I mean, I handed him off to one of those featherheaded nuns, not to the Youngs.” He pushed his empty plate away from him and slouched back into his chair.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Perhaps that's the wrong approach.”

  
“What do you mean?”

“It seems to me,” Aziraphale began cautiously, “that the very fact that your employment with Hell didn't last indicates the solution to your problem. I mean, as you just said yourself, it's not like there's any love there to lose.”

Crowley's mind whirred until it hit on what the angel was implying. “You. Smug. _Bastard_ ,” he said, straightening his back again. “You think I'm sauntering _up,_ don't you!”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Aziraphale replied coyly. “I mean, would it be so bad?”

“I've been waiting for this,” Crowley said coldly. “'If Sariel can Ascend, why can't you?'”

“Now, that's not fair. I've never said that. Besides, even if I did, I wouldn't suggest Sariel's route. He took the hard way.”

Crowley scoffed. “No joke!”

“Does it really seem like such a leap, Crowley?”

“Yes it does!” the demon exclaimed. “I can't explain why, it just does. Aziraphale, I could have done it back there at the Baphomet gate. I could have asked God for forgiveness, and I probably would have gotten it. Then I'd have had throngs of angels coming to my rescue, not just one. But I just couldn't do it. I don't know if I knew somehow that you were on the way, or if I was looking for an escape, but I couldn't do it. I think I'm just not ready.”

“ _That doesn't make any sense!_ ” Aziraphale shouted. He smacked one hand down on the table and stood. “It's _Hell,_ Crowley! As dull as you may find Heaven, you can't honestly tell me that it's just as bad. You hardly even Fell all the way anyway—it looks to me like you're stuck here in the middle!”

“ _Oh, really?_ ” Crowley yelled, standing in turn. “ _And where do you suppose you are?_ ”

A regretful silence pervaded the room as they both realized the absurdity of having an argument.

“I'm sorry I shouted,” Aziraphale said.

“Me, too,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale sat back down, and Crowley followed. “I'll admit,” the angel said gently, “I do think about it sometimes. This world is going to end eventually, Crowley. I don't want to be separated, even if you were back in Hell's good graces. Honestly, though, as long as I knew you were unharmed and happy, I could bear it. I wouldn't regret a moment of our time together, either. That's why I don't press the issue. We're here together _now_ , and that's what matters.”

Crowley couldn't help but smile faintly. “Careful, Angel. You might want to ease up on those Eastern spiritual texts. Some of your lot frown on that.”

“Oh, you know me,” Aziraphale said. “If it has printing on it and stays still...”

Crowley chuckled. “Sounds about right. As for the end of the world...I think about it too. It's worth asking myself whether I _could_ be happy without you. I guess I can't say, 'Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.'”

“It's fine with me if you don't,” Aziraphale said. “I always hated that saying anyway. Keep in mind, though, that forgiveness is much more likely to be granted if it's _not_ requested during an emergency.”

Crowley put his head down on the table. “I know, I know,” he said with a groan. “But you _know_ what happens then. I'd have to go straight to Heaven.”

“At least there, you'd be unharmed,” Aziraphale said. “At least there I could visit.” _At least there, you would want to,_ Crowley thought. The angel continued. “I'd probably ask to be reassigned back to Heaven. Not right away, mind. Appearances, after all.”

Crowley nodded. “Right. Of course.” He sighed thoughtfully. “You know, I've always had this irrational confidence that the Universe would take care of me. Even when Armageddon was on the way, I think part of me still didn't believe anything bad could happen to me. Aziraphale, last night, I lost that faith completely.”

“I'm sure,” Aziraphale replied. “But think about it. What are the odds that I would open that package with your book when I did? God still loves you, Crowley. He knows that there's love within you, and not just for me. He _is_ looking out for you.”

  
“ _You're_ looking out for me,” Crowley countered. “And you're part of the Universe.”

“I'm part of God.”

Crowley sighed again. “I just wish I wasn't so afraid that I was saved by coincidence.”

“I doubt it,” Aziraphale said. He looked out the window of Cora's dining nook. “Crowley, I have to confess: I've thought about what would have happened to _me_ as well. As much as I couldn't stand for you to meet that fate...well, I think I'd be a different angel without you, or if I'd never known you. I can see myself becoming one of those cold, officious angels who tells the people that God loves them, but doesn't really believe it.”

Crowley could see a scenario unfolding in his mind: He would have simply gone missing, without being able to say goodbye. It wouldn't have taken Aziraphale long to get onto the Celestial grapevine and ask what had happened, but by that time, it would have been too late. It was unspeakably sad. At the same time, to compare Aziraphale to certain other angels caused an almost-audible dissonance in Crowley's head.

“No,” he said adamantly. “That was never going to be you, not ever. Not under any circumstances.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly. “Thank you for your confidence, but I'm not so sure.”

Crowley leaned over the table and kissed Aziraphale again, a careful, chaste kiss like the final kiss from the previous night. It made him wish, though, that they felt safe enough to be intimate, to let the world go white for a second. He knew that they might not be able to wait until the threat had passed, but that any encounter they had was likely to be quick and furtive. He resolved that as soon as they saw the other side of this, he would show the angel the time of his existence.

“You know,” Crowley said as they parted, “it's been ten years since I first got in trouble. But the attacks are unlikely to be conveniently spaced apart at regular intervals. The next one might be today, or in two weeks, or in a hundred years.” _In Hell, the pauses are the worst part,_ he thought again.

“That's true.”

“These have been good years, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “I have to consider your suggestion, but I'm not ready to give up this world—or sharing it with you—just yet. I want to take the fight to Hastur.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I'll help however I can, but after what you've been through, I think confronting him could be good for you.”

Crowley laughed ruefully. “Yeah, so do I. Any ideas?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Just now. Do you have anything you can hold against him? Information that his Master would consider unfavorable? 'Dirt', as they say?”

  
Crowley was pleasantly surprised. “Why, Aziraphale, are you suggesting blackmail?”

“The blackest.”

Crowley rubbed his chin as he considered. “No, no...I don't know anything I can use.” Then he snapped his fingers. “But I know who might. And he has the motive to help us, too.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

Crowley was trying to lighten the mood.

“And so,” he concluded, “the fourth nun says to the third, 'Look, can I please gargle in the fountain before you have to sit in it?'”

Cora sputtered with laughter as she finished her work, and Crowley laughed as well, more at her reaction than at his own joke. Aziraphale, for his part, rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

Cora scooted back from where she sat and regarded the array on her living room carpet.

The whole thing was more two meters across. The exterior circle was made of yarn in variegated autumnal colors, as was the inverted pentacle inside it. At each point of the star were various profane or profaned symbols, made with twigs or rusty nails. Within each triangle of the star was a significant object, some of which had been difficult to come by: a sparrow's skull, a bell used in an exorcism, a snake's skin, a broken shepherd's crook, and the ashes of pages from a Bible.

“There,” she said. “That should do it.” Aziraphale squirmed uncomfortably to look at what she had wrought.

It was the third night since Aziraphale and Crowley had sought refuge in her flat. After brunch the previous day, both angel and demon had gone someplace where angels were not usually found. (In truth, there really isn't anywhere that angels “fear to tread”, except possibly, in Aziraphale's specific case, certain alleyways in Soho.) It not so much Hell as an outpost...a dark pocket, close not only to the physical crust of our world, but also to the surface of our reality.

Cora had come home to find them both sitting in her kitchen, looking shocked and incredulous, with their prize on the table between them. Now, they explained, all that remained was to get Hastur to them, on their terms and turf, where they could have the advantage.

“Oh, I can do that!” she had said.

When she'd explained what she meant, neither angel nor demon had been keen on the idea, but in the end, they had accepted her help.

The next day, fortunately, had been a Saturday. Cora had done her research and run round gathering what she needed for the array, while Aziraphale and Crowley had made their own preparations.

Now she found herself in her living room, with Aziraphale sitting in a chair to her right and Crowley to her left. Crowley was dressed in an all-black suit, including the shirt, with only a bright red tie for color. He had insisted on going to his downtown office specifically for a change of clothes (yes, he had a downtown office, and yes, he kept entire outfits there). His wrists had been re-bandaged, and the cloth poked out from under the black shirtcuffs. Aziraphale, by contrast, was dressed all in white, without a tie. On anyone else, his slacks would have had no place outside of a golf course and his jacket would have had no place outside an episode of _Miami Vice._ On him, however, it had the effect he intended.

Aziraphale's fellow angels had watched the flat again the previous night, but were not present tonight. In the kitchen, there were sprouts simmering on the stove. Aziraphale and Crowley had explained that it was required since they were doing occult work in England.

Cora began fussing with the array, rearranging the angle of a twig here, the arc of the yarn there. Then she purposefully stilled her hands, not wanting to waste time or ruin the array.

“I guess there's nothing else to do, is there?” she asked.

“Not really,” Aziraphale said solemnly.

“Don't worry, darling,” Crowley said. “Once your part is done, we'll take over; then we'll be out of your hair.” _One way or another, in my case,_ he thought.

She opened the battered, black-covered book that sat between her and Crowley, and Aziraphale shifted uneasily again. She turned to a page marked by a ribbon, and began the incantation. The words were Latin, new to her but as familiar to Aziraphale and Crowley as the language which they shared with her. The last word was a proper name.

“... _Hasturus.”_

A wall of flame erupted from the circle, reaching straight to the ceiling. When it cleared, there was a figure in the center of the inverted pentacle. He resembled nothing so much as a gargoyle: horned, bat-winged and grey-skinned. He was naked except for a loincloth, and had the visage of a rhinoceros or warthog.

“Poof,” Cora whispered, so softly that only Crowley heard her.

“WHO INVOKES HASTUR, DUKE OF—” the second demon began pompously, then caught sight of Crowley. _“You!”_ Then his glanced settled on Cora, and then Aziraphale. “And you.” He had never seen the angel in this particular form, but he recognized him well enough.

“I have to say, Crowley,” Hastur said, “there's a lot that I wouldn't put past you, but this...” he gestured between Crowley and Aziraphale, shaking his head. Then with a slight frown, he craned his neck, as if trying to see on the far side of the angel's chair.

“Looking for this?” Crowley asked. He drew a sword and, with a sound like a blowtorch igniting, it burst into flame.

The infamous toy sword was now only the size of a regular sword, but it was just as much made of metal as it had been when Aziraphale had used it. In Crowley's hands, however, the flames were not white and gold, but blue and red.

“Oh...oh, I see how it is,” Hastur said. “Lured me here just to hack me apart, did you? Has the angel got me trapped in this circle?”

“Oh, no,” Crowley said. “You can move. And I don't intend to use this unless you _make_ me use it. I've mainly got this to make sure you behave yourself and listen to me.”

“Spill it, then. What's this about?”

“Well, Aziraphale and I have come into possession of something that might interest you.”

With a flourishing gesture of his free hand, Crowley was suddenly holding a yellowed piece of parchment. He cleared his throat dramatically and began to read.

“'Dearest Ligur' – oh, my! 'Dearest'? How's the view from that glass house, Hastur? Anyway, 'Dearest Ligur, Today the hell-hound did not show up to make its bond with young Warlock. I am now convinced that there was some mix-up with the infants and that Warlock is not, in fact, the Antichrist. It was probably the fault of one of those numbskull chattering nuns, but with any luck, _I'll be able to pin it on that flash bastard Crowley.'”_ Here Crowley paused. “Emphasis mine. 'Fortunately, I had the foresight to destroy the orphanage’s records. The war will probably happen anyway, but we can rid ourselves of some dead weight in the process, and have some fun.'” Crowley lowered the letter. “It goes on in that vein, but I'm sure you remember.”

“Forgery!” shouted Hastur.

“Uh-uh. Here's your sigil.” Crowley turned the letter around to show the other demon the bright mark at the bottom of the parchment. “We both know it won't activate like that if anyone else makes it.”

There was a long silence, and then Hastur let out a single, contempt-soaked word from between clenched teeth. “Screwtape.”

Screwtape and his apprentice, Wormwood, were two of the demons best known to humanity. Like Crowley, they had both worked in the department of Provocation—also known as temptation—until Wormwood had been slain by an angel. Hoping that the letters they had exchanged might have some instructive value, Screwtape had assembled them for publication—strictly in infernal circles, of course. Then he accidentally left the binder on a train headed from London to Manchester, and the letters had found themselves in slightly wider circulation.

Hastur had been trying to get Screwtape sent to Processing for this oversight even since it had come to light; but their Master had come up with a more subtle punishment. He had made Screwtape Hell's official postmaster. Perhaps this way, the logic was, he would learn to keep up with letters.

“If you bring me in, Hastur,” Crowley said, “I think His Eminence would be very interested to know that you put his war plans at risk for your own personal vendetta. For demons, the line to Processing goes right past the Throne. He likes to have his laughs. They're not going to break with that for you. Are you really willing to take that risk, Hastur?”

Already breathing harshly, Hastur roared and charged the other demon, grasping for the parchment.

Crowley merely took a half step backwards and flipped the paper up in the air, where it disappeared. Then he brought the sword around with his other hand until the tip was at Hastur's throat. With a satisfying yelp, Hastur staggered backward into the center of the pentacle.

Crowley was quite pleased with himself. That wasn't even one of the moves he and Aziraphale had practiced.

“Ah ah ah,” Crowley said, lowering the sword carefully. “Now behave, Hastur. The letter is safe now, where I can get to it whenever I want. Screwtape will also have access to it, so you'll be leaving him alone, too.”

Hastur slumped his shoulders dejectedly, and he let out a defeated sigh. It was completely at odds with his demonic countenance. Cora, who had decided a while ago that the space behind Aziraphale's chair had a lot to recommend it, peeked cautiously out from behind it.

Aziraphale spoke up for the first time.

“You're going to go back to your master,” he told Hastur, “and you're going to tell him that the investigation into the misplacing of the Antichrist has been concluded, and that it is the fault of Sister Mary Loquacious of the Chattering Order of St. Beryl.”

Hastur grunted petulantly. “But I can't tell him that!”

“And why not?”

“Because she's dead!” Hastur shouted. “ _Something—_ and now I suspect I know what—scared the Hell out of her around the time that the war was supposed to start. She found religion—a proper one, not Satanism. And then she died in a car crash year before last.”

Aziraphale had been surprised to learn of the passing of the former Satanic nun and executive retreat coordinator. With Anathema and Newt safely ensconced in Tadfield and Adam Young and friends away at university, it was easy to believe that everyone from those heady days was still alive. They weren't.

“She's in Heaven,” Hastur continued. “Beyond our reach. But you know that.”

“Mm. I know. Works out well for everyone, doesn't it?” Aziraphale said. “Well...for her and the two of us, at any rate.”

“Shut it, you meddling pansy!” Hastur rounded on the angel. “If I wanted to hear from you—”

“DON'T SPEAK TO HIM LIKE THAT!” Crowley snapped, whipping his sword up to the other demon's throat once again. “It's only because I spend so much time around an angel that you're getting this warning. If we were doing this about a thousand years ago, I'd have had you sent to Processing already. So show some fucking gratitude...Hasturiel.”

Hastur literally growled at the mention of this name, although with a flaming sword at his throat, he could do nothing else. Cora realized that Crowley had just used his angelic name.

“I want an _official_ letter releasing me from suspicion within a week,” Crowley said, “or your letter finds its way to the Throne.”

“All right, fine,” Hastur said, his teeth clenched. “You'll get it. The investigation will be closed, and you'll probably be offered your old job back, too.”

“That's nice,” Crowley said. “I won't take it.”

“I didn't expect so,” Hastur replied, glancing over to Aziraphale.

“Well, you're not wrong about my motives,” Crowley said. “But I'm not in a hurry to get back to demons who turned on me so quickly. I also enjoy being able to decide for myself what needs to happen.”

Hastur snorted. “Ligur was twice the demon you were, Crowley,” he said with a snarl. “I'll never understand how you got the best of him. Or me.”

“Oh, let's be honest,” Crowley said, “you don't care about me and Aziraphale. You just can't stand that I like it here. I love this place and these people—and that's what really frosts you. I beat you both because you came gunning for me _knowing_ that the Young business wasn't my fault.”

Here, Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Speaking of other demons...Hastur, you should consider that you're not as alone as you think.”

Hastur looked at him suspiciously. “What are you on about?”

“Barligora,” Aziraphale said. “I saw what she did for you.”

It was clear from Hastur's manner that the angel had struck on something that made him very uncomfortable. “Yeah. Had a front row seat for it, didn't you?”

Aziraphale nodded. “At best, Hastur, you may have someone who fancies you for her own...unfathomable reasons. At the very least you have someone you can trust far more than most other demons.”

“What's it to you, anyhow?”

“Oh, I _loathe_ to tell you anything that might improve your quality of life,” Aziraphale replied. “But my hope is that it may inspire you to mind your own business.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “If you spent half as much time focusing on humans as you do persecuting other demons, your lot might be the one building expansions, instead of Heaven.”

“If you're both done telling me what to do,” Hastur said, “I'll be going.”

“We're not keeping you,” Aziraphale said.

“You're off the hook for now, Crowley,” Hastur said, “but you'd best watch your step, because you've made plenty of enemies. And if you ever call me Hasturiel again,” here he mimed boxing, “we go toe-to-toe, whether you're on the shite list or not.”

“I'm willing to fight as fairly as you are, Hastur,” Crowley said. He gestured to his friends. “Obviously.”

Hastur snorted, then looked at Cora where she cowered behind the chair. “So long, Chicky-boo. You brought me here, so I'll be seeing _you_ later.”

Cora wrinkled her nose and held up a rosary. “Doubtful.”

Hastur growled again and, with another wall of flame, was gone.

A long silence hung between the remaining three.

“If either of you were wondering,” Crowley said finally, “he was an arse as an angel, too.”

Cora giggled a mad, punchy giggle. “The Arseangel Hasturiel.” Aziraphale shot her a disapproving look.

With another acetylene sound, Crowley extinguished the sword. “Hey!” he said, holding it aloft. The sword was back to being plastic again, and was now even blacker. “Check this out! It made it through! Aziraphale, we're keeping this. That we can always remember that we—” and the plastic blade broke off at the hilt.

“Or we could just put it in the rubbish,” Aziraphale said, trying not to laugh.

Crowley shrugged. “Nah, I'll keep the pieces. Could someone please get _that_ out of here, though?”

  
He gestured to a plant mister concealed behind a front leg of Aziraphale's chair. It was full of holy water, sanctified by Aziraphale with just a touch. With enough warning, Hastur could have caused the bulb on it to burst, just as he had done when Crowley brandished a mister full of mundane water; but an imperfect Plan B was better than none at all. Cora had even offered to fling her rosary at Hastur if necessary, but Crowley wasn't sure he trusted her aim.

At several points in the confrontation, Aziraphale had reached for the bottle with almost comical readiness; but Hastur, fortunately, had never noticed.

“I'll take it,” Cora said grabbing it up. She figured that her two friends could use a moment to themselves.

“Thank you.” From Crowley's point of view, the plant mister was like a loaded gun that could only shoot him.

“Hang on,” Cora said as she stood. “Before I forget.” She snatched the bell up from the array and handed it to Aziraphale. He took it, waved his other hand over it to dispel any lingering evil, and stuffed it in his pocket with a chagrined grumble.

The bell was from over the door in Aziraphale's shop. The ritual did not specify that the bell had to have been used in a _demonic_ exorcism.

“So,” Cora asked, clearing her throat, “is there any specific trick to disposing of the holy water? Any special gestures or words?”

  
Aziraphale shook his head. “It's usually poured down a consecrated sink, although if the Earth isn't close enough, I'm not sure what is.”

Cora nodded, and headed out the door.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Crowley came over to him and embraced him. They kissed, a much longer, better kiss than they had shared the previous morning, and then Crowley leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“I do hope you realize that you're coming home with me tonight."

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale said with a smile.

“Yes, really. I plan to take my _time_ with you.”

But then the angel demurred. “You know...if you're not ready to go back to your place, we can go to mine.”

“Not at all,” Crowley said. “I'm _ready_ to be home, Aziraphale, I've been gone for two days. Besides,” he added with a rakish smile, “I have the bigger bed!”

With that, it was decided. Most likely, they would be ready to part ways the next day at mid-day, or in the afternoon; but for now, their night was just beginning.

In a moment, Cora came back in.

“Done,” she said. “Now to start on all of this.” She bent over and started winding up the yarn that formed the array, whispering the prayers that Aziraphale had taught her to cleanse the space.

“While you're doing that,” Aziraphale said, “we'll get started on tea. Er, dessert. What have you.”

Cora had suggested that perhaps a late snack would be just the way to decompress after a stressful demonic invocation. This had struck both Aziraphale and Crowley as a particularly _American_ suggestion; although in fairness, as Aziraphale’s slip indicated, if you substituted pie and coffee for tea and biscuits, it became a particularly English suggestion.

As they headed to the kitchen, Aziraphale paused. “What about your coffee, Cora? It seems that we're having regular. Shall we brew you some decaf?”

If Crowley hadn't had his back to her, Cora would have gotten to see a demon actually blush.

“No, regular's fine, I doubt I'll be sleeping anytime soon!”

“Quite.”

In the kitchen, Crowley's nose twitched after a bad smell. He opened the pot with the sprouts and made a revolted face. “Ugh, Hastur! You're nothing if not thorough!”

He proceeded to scrape the prematurely spoiled spouts in the dispose-all, then to run it and soak the pot. Cora was surprised and grateful. Crowley struck her as someone who didn't cook much and who had a maid come in once a week. (She was actually wrong on the first count.)

“Gee,” she said, “that Hastur really proves the old Sartre quote to be right, doesn't he?”

  
“Which one?” Aziraphale asked. He was getting the blueberry pie she'd bought for them all out of the refrigerator.

“'Hell is other people.'”

Crowley nodded. “Yes, and it's true, actually. But it's not really that stunning an insight.”

“Why is that?”

Crowley shrugged. “So is Heaven.” Here he looked at Aziraphale, and the angel regarded him with a warm smile.

Cora nodded thoughtfully.

With the yarn wound, Cora focused on the other items in the array. The sparrow's skull and snakeskin, acquired from a pet shop, went on her bookcase. The shepherd's crook was actually a used Nativity prop from the Anglican church she attended, and which she would return once Aziraphale miraculously mended it. Crowley had arranged for the ashes when neither Cora nor Aziraphale felt comfortable doing so. She now consigned them to the wind through an open window, along with the twigs.

She was slightly winded when she came back into the kitchen. “That's done,” she said, dusting her hands for effect.

“The pie's in the oven and the coffee's brewing,” Aziraphale said. “It'll be a few minutes, though.”

Cora nodded. “I'll go do my penance, then. It won't take long.” She pulled the rosary from her pocket.

“I still say it's bollocks,” Crowley muttered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said warningly.

“No, I'm serious, Aziraphale. Do your lot always make people apologize for helping others?”

“No, but when a demon's had to be invoked, I say better safe than sorry.”

As that was Cora's point of view as well, she slipped away from the discussion. In the privacy and low light of her room, she said her penance: one _Ave Maria_ and one _Pater Noster._ Good intentions did qualify one for an adjustment, according to Aziraphale.

She had time left over to reflect on the strangeness and wonder of the past few days. She felt as though she had learned much from her guests—about the true nature of wrong and redemption, but also about love.

The conversation was still animated when she slipped back into the kitchen.

“Aziraphale! You simply _must_ stop saying that!”

“And why? Don't misunderstand, I'm not saying I wanted to turn into a serpent myself. But I stand by what I said.”

“I was _not_ a 'cute snake'! I was a great, huge... _fuck all_ snake.” He stretched out his arms. “Four meters long, weighed almost twice as much as I do now. I was the kind of snake that would eat a _calf_ if it got hungry—I don't recommend that, by the way.”

By this point, the angel was just having fun with the situation. “Oh, but you had the _prettiest_ pattern! And you could always tell when you were smiling.”

Cora couldn't weigh in on this debate. She hadn't known Crowley, or rather Crawley, back then, after all. And at the moment, she was laughing so hard that her eyes were watering.

She could tell that her teacher and his partner, her friends, were going to be okay.

 


End file.
